


begin again

by eroticgropefest (goldfishsunglasses)



Series: begin again 'verse [1]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Exes to Lovers, Fluff, M/M, Normal!AU, Smut, minor character death mentions in a later chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/eroticgropefest
Summary: It’s been three years since Baz left the sleepy Isle of Mage to attend university in London, and he hasn’t regretted a thing--except maybe leaving Simon behind. Convinced he’ll never be forgiven, Baz refuses to even visit until a frantic phone call from his stepmother sends him running home. Once there, Baz is forced to confront his past, question the future, and maybe, just maybe, get that second chance he’s always desired.





	1. Chapter 1

The Isle of Mage is six kilometres long and six kilometres wide. It’s home to a mere 1,078 citizens who inhabit its three villages--Salisbury, Thistledown, and Watford. The island relies on tourism as its main source of income, and every year people flock here to see the various sights. There’s no shortage of those; everything from the natural tide pools on the rocky beaches to the castle that looms on top of the hill. It’s the type of idyllic place everyone fantasises about living in.

Everyone who isn’t me, of course.

I hate this place. I’d hated it then, and I hate it still. I hate how small everything is, how everyone seeks to know everyone else’s business. I hate the near constant stench of fish that never seems to go away--despite the fact that the fishery shut down close to a decade ago--and I hate all the fucking sheep.

I hate how everyone is content to stay here, to waste their lives in this mediocre village on this mediocre island where no one has ever actually accomplished anything noteworthy. At all. Ever. (If you don’t believe me, check the Wikipedia page.)

The thought of living here forever--of being stuck--had terrified me as a teenager. I’d always known I would leave when I could, that I had no future here. For most of secondary school all I focused on was getting out. I worked hard to stay at the top of my class, and had my eyes set on uni (any one, really, as long as it wasn’t here) as long as I can remember. It had been the perfect plan; I wasn’t attached enough to anyone on the island to miss them. Not enough to stay.

(Except maybe Simon.)

“I’m going to bed,” Daphne says once she turns off the car.

Her voice sounds remarkably different than it had when she rang me in a panic yesterday afternoon to let me know that she was at the hospital with my father, and that he’d had a heart attack. She hadn’t explicitly asked me to come, but the expectation was obvious. So I did. I came back, like I said I wouldn’t, to play the role of the dutiful son, standing by my father's bedside and consoling my stepmother as she cried.

I nod to show I’ve heard her, but make no move to exit her SUV. I’m not ready to enter the house just yet. (Or at all, really.)

Eventually the lights inside shut off, and I crack my neck before I climb out, slamming the door harder than necessary. The empty space where my car used to sit makes me sadder than it should. I’d only had it for a short time, but it was long enough to grow attached.

The fact that my father sold it is old news—he wouldn’t allow me to take it to school unless I went to Oxford like he’d wanted. Which I didn’t. So I left it and he sold it. (Bastard.)

My gaze flicks to the right and a slow grin spreads across my face, because on the opposite side of the garage is my father’s most prized possession: his forest green Jaguar, kept in perfectly pristine condition, with the top down and the keys still in the ignition. Growing up I’d barely been allowed to look at it, never allowed to ride in it. Definitely never allowed to drive it.

Taking that car would be a spiteful, juvenile thing. Petty. Immature. Unnecessary. 

I do it anyway.

* * *

Once I’m far enough from the house, I slow down and just let myself enjoy the drive. The car hugs the line between the road and the grass, and I feel my shoulders relax. This is nice, this is familiar. I feel grounded now, like I might actually be able to make it through this in one piece. (And then proceed to get properly pissed with my best friend on the beaches of Ibiza once I get home.)

A rabbit darts out onto the road, and I swear as I swerve to avoid it.

And that’s when I notice Simon.

He’s running along the side of the road in my direction, and I groan. Because of  _course_ it is.  _Of course_  I couldn’t slip on and off the island without seeing him.

(I must be cursed. It’s the only explanation.)

I speed past Simon, and he double takes so hard I swear I hear his neck crack. I don’t look back, and I think I’m in the clear until I glance in the rearview mirror and see that he’s turned around. He’s fucking turned around and is now jogging in the opposite direction. Towards me. After me. I speed up, and so does he.

(Cursed. I’m definitely cursed.)

***

I only stop because I have to there’s no more road. Or, more accurately, the bridge in front of me is blocked off, with a large orange sign declaring it to be “IN REPAIR” hanging from heavy-looking chains. I park, and wait for the inevitable.

When Simon finally catches up, he only looks slightly out of breath as he approaches the car. He’s smiling. (Why is he smiling? I wish he wasn’t smiling.)

“I’m not here to see you,” I say coolly, cutting him off before he can say anything, because we’re not doing this. We’re not going to talk.

His smile falters. “I didn’t think you were.”

“I’m not here to see you.” My tone is harsher than before.

“ _I know_.” He steps forward, “I just wanted to...”

“Did it ever occur to you,” I sneer, “that I don’t _want_  to?”

Confusion flickers across his face, followed by hurt. Good. Maybe he’ll leave.

“I just thought--”

“That must have hurt.”

His hands ball into fists. “Shut up.”

I smirk, because I’m getting to him. “I don’t remember you being so sensitive.”

“I don’t remember you being such an arsehole.”

“We were enemies; I hated you.”

“Not the entire time. Not at the end.”

“And yet,” I remind him, “I still left you.”

He’s glaring openly now. I’m playing with fire.

And I can’t stop.

Simon’s eyes widen as I throw open the door of the Jag and stalk towards him, forcing him to back up until his back hits a tree.  I get right up in his face, and chuckle as he flinches.

“Don’t you remember that day, then? How I told you I was leaving? How you practically got down on your knees and begged me to st--”

The pain is a shock, and then it burns , a throbbing ache spreading steadily outward from my nose. It hurts like hell, and I’m bleeding; it’s running down my chin. I lick my lips and taste copper. Fuck. I can’t believe he just punched me.

“Typical Snow,” I tut, “resorting to violence. You never were good with your words. A pity, really. Maybe if you had been, you could’ve actually convinced me to stay.”

He lunges forward at that, causing me to stumble until  _I’m_  the one backed against the tree. There’s a second punch coming my way, and I only just manage to duck in time. The resounding crack is satisfying, especially considering what he just did to my bloody nose.

(Pun very much intended.)

“What the fuck!” he yells, curling his arm into his chest, “You broke my hand!”

“You did that to yourself, you idiot.”

Simon growls, and yanks his white t-shirt off. The world stops for a moment as I catch a glimpse of his bare torso, and I have to swallow a few times before I manage to snap, “Christ, Snow, what’s with the bloody striptease?” with any sort of convincing indignation.

Simon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand like he’s trying not to laugh.

“What? What is it? What’s so funny?”

“It’s literally…” he lets himself go, almost wheezing too hard to answer. “It’s literally--literally a bloody strip…a bloody striptease.”

My jaw drops, and this sends him into another fit of hysterics. The situation has become so ridiculous, and I’m so fucking sleep-deprived, that I find myself laughing along with him, all the tension from earlier gone.

“I’ll drive you home.” It’s a statement, because I’m afraid that, if I make it a question, he’ll say no. But I want him to say no. Don’t I? Christ, this is confusing.

“Here”, Simon says, holding out his shirt, before climbing in, “so you don’t drip on the seats. I know how you get about your car.”

“It’s fine,” I say, “it’s not my car.” I still take the proffered shirt and use it to wipe my nose. Simon appears unbothered, even when I hand him back a significantly bloodier shirt, as I sit down in the driver's seat. (To be fair, Simon is unbothered by most strange things, so I’m not concerned.)

Simon’s eyes flick around his surroundings, and it’s like he’s only just realised where he’s sitting.

“This is…”

I turn the key. “Yes.”

“And he let you…”

“Nope.”

Simon nods like he gets it, and goes quiet. He starts to fiddle with the radio, and I don’t stop him. Eventually he settles on a station-- one of the mere three available on the island--and turns his head to look out the window.

I can feel my eyelids growing heavy as I drive, but, luckily for us, I’ve made this particular journey often enough that it’s basically muscle memory. With Simon in the seat next to me, it’s as if I never even left.

I hate it.

* * *

“This isn’t my house.”

I look from the house in front of us to Simon and then back to the house.

“What do you mean this isn’t your house?"

“I mean I don’t live here anymore.”

“What, did you move?”

Simon acts as if he hasn’t heard me. “You need to get back on the main road and make a right instead of a left by the school. I’ll direct you from there.”

I bite my cheek to avoid asking the questions that are threatening to spill off my tongue, and check to make sure the street is clear before reversing and driving off towards Simon’s mysterious new place.

***

I recognize it instantly, even though I’d only visited a handful of times.

“You live with Ebb?”

Simon shakes his head, and pushes the car door open. I quickly do the same when it becomes obvious that he’s not going to wait for me, and it’s only the burning curiosity that convinces me it’s a good idea to go with him.

We climb the steps side by side, and I watch as Simon digs his hand around in his pocket, wincing a bit as he does--presumably from the drag of denim across his scraped knuckles. He produces a key that requires a complicated set of manoeuvres to open the lock, and then he’s pushing the door open and I’m following him inside.

(It occurs to me that I haven’t actually been invited, but when have I ever cared about that?)

Simon kicks his trainers off and nudges them with the side of his foot so they line up with the wall, then looks at me. “Tea?”

“Please.”

He brushes past me to get to the kitchen, and I drift towards the lounge.

The interior hasn’t changed much since I was here last; the furniture is still sparse and mismatched, and there are knick-knacks covering every inch of available space. The only new thing that stands out is the sofa I’m currently staring at. It’s a terrible pea soup green, and it’s fucking corduroy, of all things. It screams charity shop. Severely discounted. It’s absolutely something Simon would buy without another person around to stop him.

Which means Simon must be here alone.

“When did Ebb leave the island?” I ask, making sure my voice carries so he can’t pretend not to hear me this time.

The sound of the mug shattering seems to echo off the walls, and I flinch. Simon’s still facing the window, but I can see his shoulders starting to shake. I stand up to help clean the mess and Simon holds up a hand. “I’ve got it.”

I don’t listen, and approach his now crouching figure. He’s scrambling to pick up the broken pieces, and one grazes the side of his hand. It’s not large, but blood still begins to stream.

“Shit!” I jump up and grab a dishrag, rushing to run it under the tap. Simon doesn’t fight back when I hold it to the cut; he just sits there, looking at the wound like he has no idea how it got there.

My knees start to hurt after a moment, and I pull back the rag to inspect the cut. It’s stopped bleeding, and looks a lot shallower than I’d expected. Definitely not deep enough to require stitches. Simon is still staring at it, looking bewildered, and I’m half-tempted to leave him there on the floor. (I would too, if I didn’t feel like it was my fault he dropped the damn thing.)

“Come on, Simon. Up you get.” I haul him to his feet, and guide him (push him along, really) over to the ugly sofa. The kettle begins to whistle, and I push Simon back down when he starts to stand. “Stay. I’ll handle it.”

(Miraculously, he listens.)

I prep the tea in record time, and even remember how Simon takes his--no sugar, lots of milk. Our fingers brush as I hand the mug to him, and I almost drop my own; it feels like I’ve been electrocuted.

Simon drinks his tea, his throat working as he swallows. (I’d almost forgot how ridiculously long he takes to swallow. It’s a whole ordeal with him.)

My own cup sits neglected in front of me. I couldn’t find any sugar, and I don’t have the energy to pretend I like it any other way.

After what seems like an eternity, but in reality is closer to five minutes, Simon finishes drinking. His cheeks are noticeably rosier as he leans forward to set the mug on the coffee table next to my discarded one, purposefully not looking my way as he says, “I am happy, you know. To see you. I know you’re not, but I am.”

I blink. I wasn’t expecting that.

Before I get a chance to respond, Simon’s mobile buzzes on the table in front of us. He grabs for it, answering it immediately and leaving the room with a quickly mouthed _sorry_. I hold up a hand to let him know it’s fine, and rest my head against the back of the sofa, closing my eyes and trying not to think about how many hours it’s been since I last slept. Leaving the house was a mistake, and I should really go before I do something mental, like fall asleep on Simon Snow’s sofa.

(As if that would ever happen.)

***

The door to my room opens, and someone’s moving around with no regard for the person (me) sleeping in here. I don’t open my eyes before snarling, “Mordelia,  _leave._ ” But she only continues to make noise, finally prompting me to lift my head and glare at her. Except it’s not Mordelia, I’m not in my room, and I’ve been lying on the world’s most uncomfortable sofa.

“Sleep well?” Simon asks.

I’m up and off the sofa as soon as I realise what’s happened. “Did you leave me alone in your house? Are you mad?”

Simon shrugs. “I had to. Someone phoned in sick at work and I had to go in.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried, but you kept pulling my hair.”

(Okay, so maybe Andrea wasn’t lying when she accused me of doing that to her. I’ll buy her apology chocolates once I’m home, the fancy kind with the lavender and sea salt.)

(Speaking of chocolate…)

“Why did you bring me cake?”

Simon looks down like he forgot what he was holding. “I didn’t bring you cake. This is  _my_  cake.”

“Alright, why do _you_  have cake?”

“Because it’s my birthday,” he says, like I should have known.

“It’s your birthday,” I echo, because of  _course_  it is. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Simon shrugs (again) as he sets the box on the kitchen counter. “I didn’t think you’d care.” He seems to realise what he’s said, because he quickly follows it with, “I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just...well it’s not like you’ve acknowledged it at all since--”

The since you  _left_  hangs in the air, a topic neither of us want to touch--especially not after what happened earlier. Suddenly, I can’t be here anymore; it’s too much.

I clear my throat. “I should go. My stepmother will be wondering where I am.”

Simon looks like he wants to argue, but I don’t give him a chance before I’m stalking past him and walking out the door.

I hadn’t expected him to follow me,  and he nearly crashes into my back when I pause to take in the night. It’s later than I thought; the sky is pitch-black, but clear, and littered with stars. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed seeing them until this moment.

That thought unnerves me; I don’t want to miss anything here. But it’s only the stars, only the sky. It’s normal to long for those things;  I'd be ridiculous to think it meant I missed anything else.

Like the island. Like Watford.

Like Simon.

Simon, who’s moved to stand beside me now, hand next to mine, barely centimetres away. It feels strange not to be holding it. (We did a lot of that when we were together. Handholding. Almost more than kissing.) There’s a chill in the air, making me even more hyper aware of how close we’re standing. Simon’s body is warm (so warm) and it’s coming off him in waves.  

I tilt my head back. “There’s so many stars. London doesn’t have stars like this.”

“Do you miss them?” he asks, and I know he doesn’t mean the stars.

“Yes,” I say, because neither do I.

“Enough to come back?”

“London has stars too, Simon.”

“But not like this.”

“No, not like this.”

We’re silent then. The night is still, and the air feels charged with something both familiar and new. I fight the urge to indulge, reminding myself that I _left_  and there was a reason, and that I really should get home and pack because I’m leaving first thing tomorrow.

“I really do need to leave.”

Simon hums in acknowledgment, and I push off from the rail, standing up straight until I’m taller than him again. He doesn’t move, or even turn his head towards me. Feeling my way across the porch, I make my way down the stairs.

“I’ll see you around then,” he finally says as I climb into my car, and I wave before driving off.

***

I’m halfway home when I remember he won’t.


	2. Chapter 2

I’m still here. 

I’m still in Watford, still on the island, and I tell myself it’s because Daphne is anxious and scared, and won’t leave my father’s side. I tell myself it’s so Andrea can have a holiday alone with her girlfriend without me third-wheeling. I tell myself it's because my siblings miss me. 

(I tell myself and I tell myself and I tell myself, like if I do it enough, I might actually be telling the truth.)

On the subject of Daphne, I’d nearly given her a heart attack of her own when I came down for breakfast my second day back with bruises under my eyes and swelling around my nose. She wouldn’t stop stealing glances at me as I ate my eggs, but didn’t ask any questions. (Not that I would have told her anything. As far as my parents knew, Simon and I were secondary school rivals who could barely stand to be in the same room together.) (I never bothered to correct them when those circumstances changed.)

One week—and many cold compresses from Vera—later, the swelling is gone, but the bruising still remains. I scrunch up my face at my reflection in the mirror, hissing as I remember why I shouldn't do that. Fuck Simon.

I’d just wanted to push him a bit, see if he would yell. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. Simon’s never fought with his words, and me egging him on could have only ended one way. I just wish it hadn’t involved my nose. 

I haven’t shown Andrea yet. I’m afraid she’ll think it’s the reason I’ve cancelled on  our holiday. Maybe I should, actually. Then I won’t have to admit the real (much worse) reason. Except she’d just cover up the bruises and drag me to the beach anyway—one of the downsides of being friends with a makeup artist; you can never get out of social gatherings because of your appearance. (That doesn’t mean I don’t try.) (It never works.)

After determining my reflection a lost cause, I leave the bathroom, bumping into Daphne in the hallway.

“Oh, Baz,” she says once she notices it’s me, “I was just looking for you. Can you take the twins to football club again today?”

I nod, because of course I will.  I can’t say I intended to spend my hols as a nanny, but I’m finding that I don’t mind all that much. It gives me something to do. (It gives me excuses.)

Normally Daphne would be the one taking them places, but  my father’s heart attack had shaken her more than I’d initially realised. According to Vera, she’d been out shopping for most of the day when it happened—apparently she and my father had a row—and she’d returned just in time to see him being loaded onto an ambulance. 

She’s been glued to his side since he came home.   
  
As if on cue, Cecily and Roseline—my six year old half-sisters—come tumbling out of their room. They’re followed closely by Winston, Daphne’s black and tan corgi, who makes a beeline for me almost immediately. I brace myself for an assault on my ankles, but before he can get to me Daphne’s scooping him up, admonishing him in sickening baby talk while he licks at her face.    
  
“Why is that dog so obsessed with me?”   
  
“He just wants to be your friend,” she replies, and I frown—I don’t like dogs, and I especially don’t like Winston. (This has done nothing to dissuade his love for me.)

“I don’t want to be his friend.”

Daphne just shakes her head and laughs—like she always does when I voice my opinion on her dog—and looks past me at the twins. “Are you two ready to go?”

They nod.

“Do you have your bags ready?”

Wide-eyed, they run off—presumably in the direction of the bags, and I grab the keys, rolling my eyes at Daphne as she tries to get Winston to give me a kiss goodbye.

***

We’re barely out of the garage when Cecily lunges forward and shoves a CD in my face. “Play this.”

“No,” I say flatly as I bat it away, “no, we are not listening to One Direction. And put on your seatbelt.”

“But you said no yesterday. And the day before,” she whines.

“And I’m saying it again: no.”   
  
“I’ll tell Mum you’re being mean.”   
  
“I don’t care.”   
  
“I’ll scream.”   
  
“I’d rather listen to that. Seatbelt. Now.”

“You’re in trouble,” Roseline sing-songs; Cecily drops the CD and swats at her. 

“Cece! Leave her alone,” I snap.

Roseline looks smug, and Cecily sulks and kicks my seat. “I want my music.”   
  
“Put your seatbelt on.”

She does. “Can I have my music now?”

“No.”

She continues to kick my seat for the duration of the trip, sticking her tongue out whenever I glance in the rearview mirror.

It’s a long drive.

***

As soon as we arrive, the twins jump out of the car and run to the pitch, screaming and jumping around once they reach their friends. I go to say hello to Coach Minos; only it’s not Coach Minos standing next to the watercooler. It’s Simon. 

“What are you doing here?”

He jumps, and the ball he’d been bouncing on his knees falls to the ground. “Hey, Baz.”

“What are you doing here?” I repeat. “Where’s Coach Minos?”

Simon shrugs. “Dunno. He just asked me to fill in, so I am.” 

“But you’re terrible at football.”

“I still know how to play,” he says defensively, “I can still help. And I’m not  _ that  _ terrible.”

I scoff. “I think we played enough together for me to be a fair judge.” 

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I’m remembering how those games usually ended—with tackles and kisses and me accusing him of cheating. (Judging by the look on Simon’s face, so is he.)

“I, um, I have to go now. The kids need me. I’ll be…” he points in the direction of the pitch, “there.”

“Right. And I’ll be…” I gesture to the stands where the other parents are sat, “there.” 

Simon nods and jogs off. I force myself not to watch his retreating figure (or the way his back muscles flex under his shirt) and find a place to sit down, away from everyone. I spend the next hour pretending to be engrossed with my phone, and trying not to stare at Simon. 

(I don’t succeed.)

***

After that, Simon is everywhere. 

At the pharmacy when I’m picking up Mordelia’s allergy medication. At the bakery where he swipes two of my scones. Still filling in for Coach Minos at the twins’ football club. Running on the beach where I’m playing with Alfie. Stopping his run to build a sandcastle with Alfie. Knocking over said sandcastle with Alfie and immediately earning himself a best friend for life. (Which isn’t that impressive, considering Alfie’s three and loves everyone.)

I’m lying on the floor in my room when my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, alerting me to a new message from Andrea, my flatmate back in London. (I suppose you could call her my best friend—she does—but that’s such a juvenile term that I avoid it whenever possible.) (Which is always.) 

**hows the isle of exbfs**

_**Don’t call it that.** _  
_**Boring.** _

**masochist**  
**just come home if its that terrible**

**_I didn’t say it was terrible._ **

I almost pocket my phone then, mostly because I don’t want to deal with her questions right now, and a little bit because I’m afraid I’ll spill everything.

Andrea’s shockingly good at getting me to confess things.

**_I saw Simon today._ **

(Sometimes without even trying.)

**!!!**  
**is that good??**

My fingers hover over the screen as I contemplate my answer.  **_I don’t know_ **

**are u going to see him again??** ****  
  
**_I’m not._ **   
****  
**wht not???** ****  
***why**   


**_Because it’s not like that. I didn’t mean to see him._ **

**but u wanted to  
** **u wanted to see him  
** **right?? _  
_ **

********

**_It’s not like that. We’re not like that._ **

**but u want to be**   
  
**_I don’t want to talk about it._ **   
  
Her next message is just a picture, one of those inspirational quotes that she’s so fond of. It reads:  _ Everything you want is on the other side of fear.  _ The paper is grey and the frame is black, stark against the white wall. It’s very aesthetic, very Andrea, and very much not what I want to think about right now.  I scowl as I type my response.   
  
**_I’m not scared._ **   
  
She responds with a gif of a laughing duck.  **alright luv**   
  
**_And it’s not what you think. I don’t want Simon._ **   
  
**who mentioned wanting simon ths isnt about wanting simon**   
  
**_Andrea._ **   
****  
**i didnt bring up wanting simon u brought up wanting**  
**god baz stop talking about wanting simon all the time**  
**its embarrassing ur better than thsi**  
**grosd**  
***gross**  
**baz**  
**baz**  
**basil**  
**dont be scared basil**  
**basilton**  
**bazzybazzybazzy**  
**i know ur reading these**  
**philippa says i need to leave you alone now**  
**oh she just took her top off what a clever distraction**

The messages stop after that (thank you Philippa), and I set my phone back on my stomach. The floor isn’t the most comfortable place to lie down, but I can’t bring myself to get on the bed. It’s bad enough that I have to sleep there, in the ancient four-poster, with its dark red canopy, and gargoyles. (An excessive amount of gargoyles, really.)

I’m weighing up the pros and cons of sleeping on the floor when I feel a new message coming through. I snort and pick it up to tease Andrea about finishing too quickly—except it’s not from her. 

I didn’t even know Simon still had my number, if I’m honest, and my heart is pounding in my ears as I read his words. 

If I answer this, if I say yes, then we’ll cross the line from casual-friends-who-bump-into-each-other-sometimes to Friends Who Text, and there’ll be no going back—not without the potential for fallout. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I even  _ want  _ to do. My hands are shaking so badly that I can feel my phone beginning to slip from my grasp.    


_ Everything you want is on the other side of fear. _   
  
I take a deep breath, curse Andrea for jinxing me, and reply.   
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Three days ago Simon sent me a text asking me to go to the cinema with him. I’d agreed, we saw a film, he bought me dinner, and now, two days later, he’s standing in my bedroom doorway next to Vera, who’s just announced his arrival.

“Thank you, Vera,” I say, “and hello, Simon.” Vera nods and leaves, leaving me alone with Simon in my room for the first time in years.

“Hey,” he replies, casually, as if it’s a common occurrence for him to show up at my house uninvited. (Or even to show up at all.)

I opt not to beat around the bush. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs again. (Half his fucking answers are shrugs—it’s both infuriating and adorable.) (Adorably infuriating.) (Infuriatingly adorable.)

“So, can I come in?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs, and walks past me into the room. I watch as he starts wandering around, picking up things and peering at objects like he’s looking for something.

“Can I help you?”

“ _May_  I help you.”

“Fuck off.”

“If I have to be all posh and proper, then you do too. ‘sonly fair.”

He stops in front of my old violin, tucked away in its case. I watch as he runs his fingers over the leather, and then the clasps, before turning to look at me. “Do you still play?”

I nod.

“You used to play for me.”

“I played because I wanted to.” (Both statements are true, though I refuse to disclose that fact.)

“Okay,” he says slowly, “do you want to play now?”

“Not particularly.”

“Will you?”

“No,” I reply as I stand up and cross the room until I’m standing next to him. Elbowing him out of the way, I point to the sofa at the foot of my bed. “Sit down.”

He obeys quickly, nearly tripping over himself before falling down onto the red velvet. The heather grey of his trackies pops against the rich color. I wish I didn’t know how it contrasts with his skin. (I wish that this was the first time I was remembering that.)

Now that I’m closer to the violin, the signs of disuse are more apparent. There’s a thin layer of dust settled over the black leather, streaked where Simon’s fingertips ran the length of the case. The layer isn’t thick enough to generate a large cloud when I open it, but small bits are still dispersed, made visible by the sunlight streaming in from the large bay window across the room.

I can feel Simon’s eyes on me as I reach for the instrument. It’ll be out of tune, and I almost play it anyway, but something stops me. I don’t want to play him something imperfect.

It feels shockingly intimate, him watching me like this. I’m not doing anything incredibly exciting, except it’s been so long since I’ve touched this particular violin that there’s a certain amount of nostalgia involved. That’s all. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason I agreed to do this. Nostalgia. That’s the only reason I’ve got prickles on the back of my neck, and butterflies in my stomach.

I’m taking longer than necessary to prepare, stalling on purpose. It’s tuned now, the bow properly rosined, but I can’t make myself pick it up. It’s not that I don’t want to do it, just…

I don’t realise I’m holding my breath until it registers that the only sound in the room is Simon’s quiet respirations. Still not facing him, I inhale, close my eyes, and lift the instrument to my chin, counting in before I begin to play. It’s nothing he’s heard before, playing something familiar felt like too much, so I’ve chosen the song I’d been teaching myself before I came here. (It sounds better with Andrea accompanying on the piano, but Simon doesn’t need to know that.)

The first note slices through the air, just this side of too loud. I wince, but as the song goes on I lose myself in the music. I haven’t practised at all since I got here, and I can immediately feel the effects. Nothing calms my mind like playing, and for the next two and a half minutes the only thing I think about is what comes next, how to move the bow, how to block out my thoughts.

When I come back to myself I hear someone sniffling. I let the instrument drop from my chin, and when I turn around I can see tears in Simon’s eyes. He blinks them away, but not completely. I’m holding my breath again.

Simon clears his throat. “That was…” He looks lost for words. “That was good. That was really good. Fuck, Baz, that was sort of amazing.”

It wasn’t, I would run out of fingers listing every mistake I just made, but I feel my cheeks flush at the compliments anyway, and I cover up my embarrassment by fiddling with my violin, pretending to check the strings and inspect the bow. “I haven’t practised for weeks; I’m rusty.”

“You’re brilliant.”

“I’m really not,” I say, looking away from him. I can still feel his eyes on me, and when I lift my head he’s right in front of me.

“You are.”

It’s not often that I’m struck dumb—that’s Simon’s thing—but every word I know has suddenly left my brain. I don’t remember how to talk; my tongue won’t move. I manage to get my mouth to open slightly, but all that comes out is, “ah.” And then nothing. There’s something hanging in the air, not quite a promise, but palpable enough to cause my heart to beat faster. I shouldn’t want this.

There’s a knock at the door, and the spell is broken. I jerk my head back then, and it’s impossible to miss the way Simon’s face falls. My stomach swoops at the idea that he wanted it too, but I shove that down abruptly. It can’t happen. We can’t happen. Nothing has changed. I’m still going back.

Nothing has changed, not even for Simon.

“It’s open,” I call out. Daphne sticks her head in, and whatever she was about to say seems to die on her lips when she notices I’m not alone.

“Oh! Am I interrupting something?”

I shake my head. “Simon was just leaving.” Simon nearly snaps his neck at the sound of his name, frowning like he wasn’t expecting to be kicked out like this. (I don’t want to do it.) (I have to do it.)

“I didn’t know you two were friends,” she says. “How nice.”

Judging by her genuine reaction, Daphne doesn’t seem to remember Alfie telling her about our day at the beach. The first thing he’d done after I brought him inside to her was scramble into her lap and babble excitedly about building sandcastles and knocking them all down with “Si”. I’d braced myself for an interrogation after that, but it never came, and now I can guess why. (To be fair, she never knew him as Si.) (To be fair, she never really knew him at all.)

I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod. Simon gives a tiny one back, and we stand in an awkward silence that feels like it lasts hours while Daphne watches us. I wish she’d bloody say something more. I wish I could bloody say something at all. (I don’t have high hopes for Simon—his conversational skills are useless at the best of times.)

“Did you need something?” I finally ask, and Daphne shakes her head.

“I just wanted to ask you a question, but it can wait.”

“Okay,” I say. She makes no move to leave, and I don’t miss the question in her eyes as she attempts to subtly look back and forth from me to Simon. She doesn’t seem quite satisfied with whatever she sees, but she still backs out of the doorway and nods in our direction as she says, “have a nice day, Simon,” and “Baz, we’ll talk later.”

Simon murmurs his response as she closes the door. The awkwardness has dissipated, but only somewhat. “I didn’t think Daphne knew who I was,” he says.

“It’s a fucking small island. Of course she knows who you are.”

“But she doesn’t know about—”

“Of course not. No one knows,” I pause, slightly dreading his answer. (I don’t know why, it’s not like the consequences would matter at this point.) (It’s not like there are any consequences at all. Anything remotely controversial ended that day in Simon’s room.)  “Unless you told someone?”

“Just Penelope,” he says, and I can’t say I hadn’t expected that. “Have you told anyone?”

“Just my flatmate.” (Who proceeded to tell Philippa, because they’re one of those couples with no secrets.) (I don’t know how they do it, but I can’t help feeling like they have the right idea.)

“Speaking of Bunce,” I say, “I’m surprised I haven’t bumped into her yet.”

His smile drops. “She...um...she moved to America two years ago to be with her boyfriend. It’s been…it’s been hard, actually. Not having her here. It’s been hard.”

It hits me then that I wasn’t the only one to leave him. “America isn’t amnesia.”

“It feels like it sometimes.”

“You don’t talk?”

“We do talk. But it’s not the same as being together in person. And not having her here—not having anyone here, really—made it so much harder.”

“Made what harder?”

He stiffens. “Nothing.”

I almost let it go, but then I remember his strange reaction to my question at his house. Ebb’s old house. I also recall that I haven’t seen a hint of his father since my return, which doesn’t make sense because he used to be everywhere.  

“Simon? Did something happen to Ebb? Did something happen to your... ” I trail off, because I can’t make myself say it out loud.

“What? Why would you… I—I can’t…Baz…I—” Simon’s shoulders start to shake, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. I’ve broached a topic too heavy for this stage in our newfound friendship, but I can’t take it back. That doesn’t mean I don’t try.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Simon shakes his head. “I want to. I…I think I need to. I need to tell someone.”

“Okay,” I say. I should cross the room and sit next to him, but I can’t make myself move. I wrack my brain, trying to prepare something comforting to say, but there’s nothing there. (I’ve always been terrible at this. Comforting people. Making them feel better.) (I don’t know how.)

“There was a car accident,” he says. I don’t miss the wobble of his lip, and my heart’s already breaking. “They both—it…” His voice falters, but he squares his shoulders and continues, voice louder and clearer, but still ragged. “I was in the car. The night he—the night it happened. I was with him; I was there.”  He looks at me, eyes stricken suddenly, “I don’t remember. Baz, I don’t remember…I don’t—shit!”

“My—Davy—Davy, he was…fuck…he was lecturing me, yelling at me about—fuck,” he swears, “fuck, I don’t even remember. It wasn’t even important enough to remember.”

That realisation seems to destroy any semblance of control, and Simon hiccups a small sob. “It’s my fault, Baz. It’s my fault they died. I killed them. I—it’s all my fault.” He’s crying openly now, big fat drops rolling down his freckled cheeks, so different from his earlier tears. I can barely take it.

“Simon,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say, and he looks at me, face red and and puffy, and so so  broken. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say, except that I’m sorry.  _I’m so sorry, Simon. I’m so sorry for leaving. I’m sorry you had to go through that alone. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry. I love you._

The last thought is more terrifying than it should be, and it’s enough to jolt me back to the moment. Without meaning to, I find myself approaching Simon on the sofa. He’s curled into himself, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. His head is bowed now, but he still makes a noise to acknowledge my presence. I make no move to touch him first, but don’t move away when he leans into me.

I don’t try to hold him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His breathing starts to slow, and I’m half afraid he’s going to fall asleep on me, and half hoping he actually will. Neither of us say anything, and I work to steer my thoughts to a safer topic. Not a happier one, though, because I’m back to dwelling on the fact that he’s been so alone.

It’s not like the past few years have been a bloody breeze for me either, but I’d at least had people there for me. (Well, a person. A person and her girlfriend, because they’re a package deal, apparently.) I have other friends—which is entirely Andrea’s fault—but she was the one who got me through that first year away from home. She was the one who understood me best—still is—and I can’t imagine what my life would be like now without her.

(She’d tease me for ages if I was ever that openly soppy, but that doesn’t make it any less true.)

We met exactly one week into my first term, when I walked into my morning lecture to find her sat in my seat, giggling with the girl next to her. I’d refused to sit anywhere else, and she wouldn’t give up the spot. We were caught at a standstill until I was declared a nuisance and kicked out.

I’d held a grudge against her for the rest of the term, and spent the remaining lectures glaring at her from my inferior seat in the back of the hall. It wasn’t until Easter hols, when we were among those who elected not to return home, that we ran into each other. Not literally, of course, but Andrea recognised me from that day at uni and offered to buy me a coffee as a belated apology.

Now—nearly four years later—we’re flatmates, that girl is her girlfriend, and the three of us spend our holidays together. Typically on a beach, usually in Ibiza, and always away from home.

Until this year.

Because this year I’m spending my summer in the last place I ever expected, trying (and failing) not to pine after the boy I’d left behind while his wet cheeks dampen my shirt.

There’s a noise at the door again, except this time it’s more like a scratching than a knocking. I suspect I know who the culprit is. I try to ignore it, but it comes, louder, and Simon looks curious.

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “What was that?”

“Just Winston.”

Simon’s up in an instant, scrambling towards the door. Winston comes running in as soon as there’s enough space to squeeze through, and he makes a beeline straight for me. Simon attempts to intercept, catching a wiggling Winston with one arm—which goes about as terribly as expected—and giggles as his face is assaulted with slobbery dog kisses.  

Oh, bloody hell. I forgot how much he loved that damn dog.

I’d make him leave—he’s not supposed to be in here anyway—but Simon’s finally smiling again, his mood completely flipped, and that’s enough for me to let Winston stay. (I suppose I could kick Simon out as well.) (I suppose I could do a lot of things involving Simon.)

They’re both on the floor now, Simon absent-mindedly scratching at Winston’s exposed belly. His face is still red, his eyes are still puffy, but he looks content now. I move to pack up my violin, but Simon stops me.

“Will you play for me again? Please?”

Without saying anything, I lift the instrument and return to the song from earlier. This time I’m facing Simon, and he’s smiling softly as he watches me. The intensity of his gaze makes me close my eyes, and when I open them again after I’m done, I see Simon asleep on the rug next to the unlit fireplace. He’s cuddling Winston, who isn’t asleep like Simon, but seems extremely content to be held that way. I swear he’s looking at me smugly. Can dogs even look smug? I glare at him, which doesn’t faze him in the slightest, of course. (Or make me any less jealous.)

I drag the duvet from my bed and lay it on top of Simon. Winston gets buried underneath, but he manages to wiggle his way out before I can start to feel bad about it. Simon rolls over, and I think I’ve woken him up until I realise his eyes are still shut tightly. His cheek is smooshed against the rug, and it’s so terribly endearing that I have to look away.

I can’t be in here right now—not when he’s looking soft and innocent on my bedroom floor. I don’t want to go downstairs either, so I decide to revisit one of my thinking spots from when I was a teenager: the roof.

It used to drive Daphne mad, me sitting out here like this. She was convinced I’d fall and break my neck. “For goodness sake, Basil, it’s on the second floor!” she’d say, but I never stopped. It’s not like I was running around up here or anything, just sitting. And thinking. (And, according to Vera, brooding.)

The window sticks—bloody ancient house—and I have to force it open. It makes a terrible screeching noise, and I look back quickly to see if it’s woken Simon up, but he’s still sound asleep. Winston’s eyes are closed now as well, and I have to tear my eyes away from the disgustingly domestic scene before I do something ridiculous, like join them.

***

That’s where Simon finds me some time later, cross-legged on the roof, smoking a cigarette and watching the sun fall behind the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and crimson.

“Have a good nap?”

He rotates his shoulder and cracks his neck. “I’ve had better.”

I take a drag, inhaling and letting the smoke fill my lungs like a warm blanket. The nicotine rushes to my head, reminding me that it’s been ages since I’ve done this. When I exhale, I make sure to blow the cloud in Simon’s direction, and he frowns.

“Those things’ll kill you.”

I stub it out. “Good.”

He rolls his eyes, laughing softly, and sits down heavily next to me. Our shoulders are touching now—this is the closest I’ve been to Simon in ages; it’s the sweetest type of torture. He smells like me, like cedar and bergamot, and I’m too busy trying to figure out a subtle way to shove my nose into his curls that I don’t notice him reaching for my hand until our fingers are already intertwined. He squeezes gently, and my cheeks flame.  

Simon watches the sky, and I watch Simon. Hoping that he’ll notice. Hoping that he won’t.

It feels like we should be kissing. The sun is setting, he’s right there, and it would be so ridiculously simple to just lean in and do it. We should be kissing. He turns his head.

And then, we are.


	4. Chapter 4

Simon’s doing that nice thing with his chin that used to drive me mad. His hands are on my cheeks, warm and familiar, and all I can think about is how much this feels like coming home. It’s gone dark; the night feels like a blanket surrounding us, shielding us from the real world. And the real world consequences of this kiss.

I’m kissing Simon.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to move on, I was supposed to stay away. I had plans. (I still have plans.) I’m not supposed to be sitting here with Simon, letting him slide his tongue past my lips and into my mouth. Letting him kiss me.

I’m in love with him.

My arms are resting uselessly at my sides, and I want so badly to reach up, to tangle my fingers in his curls, and pull him into me. I shouldn’t want this.

Christ, I’m in love with him. I’m still in love with him.

I’m not supposed to be in love with him. I’m not supposed to be sitting here, kissing him, starting to wonder if he feels the same. Worrying. Worrying that he doesn’t love me back. Worrying that he does.

I’m in love with Simon.

And that’s why I push him away.

He looks confused, but not angry, and I know it’s going to take more than this to make him leave. His expression is tearing at my chest, leaving deep claw marks across my heart, because he looks so bloody hopeful. Happy, like he wants this.

And that’s exactly why it can’t happen.

“You should go,” I say, and Simon frowns.

“But—”

“Leave, Simon.”

He looks well and truly hurt now, but not angry. Still not angry. So I push him again, harder this time, and his eyes flash.

“What the fuck, Baz?”

“Leave! I don’t want you here!”

“Fine,” he spits, “I’ll go.” His face is twisted and angry (finally) and my stomach plummets a bit at his expression. There’s an underlying sense of confusion underneath his rage, and I feel sick, because I can’t explain. I just need him to leave. Now. Quickly.

“Are you waiting for an invitation from the Queen? Fucking _leave_.”

Simon’s hands ball into fists, and there’s a split second where I’m afraid he’ll punch me again. I tell myself I’d stop him. (I know I wouldn’t.) (I know I deserve it this time.)

I squeeze my eyes shut, and finally hear the sound of retreating footsteps. Judging by the noise made by the rustling leaves, Simon’s remembered how to get down, which is good considering I don’t know if I’d be able to let him leave if he’d gone back through my window.

I should stop him. He could get hurt.

But I don’t.

Instead, I force my eyes open, watch as he works his way down the tree, not even daring to blink as he steps on shaky branches. I don’t realise I’ve been holding my breath until he’s safely on the ground. He doesn’t look back. (I don’t know what I’d do if he did.)

My lips burn where they touched his. I feel empty, hollowed out, like someone’s come and scooped out everything. Like my energy’s been syphoned. Like a house after a fire.

I had to do it. Now that I’ve admitted to myself how I feel, I had no other choice. Because nothing could make me come back to this place permanently. Not even Simon. (Especially not Simon.)

I sit on the roof until the temperature begins to drop and I’m forced to retreat inside. The duvet is still lying on the rug where Simon left it. My first thought is slob and then it probably smells like him. I lay next to it—not on it, because if I lay on it I’ll sniff it, and I’d like to retain at least some of my dignity tonight, thank you very much—and stare.  

Winston waddles over, flopping down beside me, and I don’t push him away. He licks my hand, but it’s nothing like his usual slobbers, more like a confirmation that he’ll miss him too.

* * *

***

Time passes. Simon doesn’t come back.

***

It’s been almost a fortnight since The Kiss. An entire fortnight that I’ve had to force myself not to text him. Or call him. Or show up at his house in the middle of the night and demand to know why he hasn’t called. (Okay, maybe not the last one. Too dramatic, even for me.) It’s bloody embarrassing—one kiss, and I’m craving him constantly—but I—  

“Baz? Baz! Are you paying attention?”

Andrea’s voice kills my internal monologue flat, effectively silencing all the voices shouting how badly I’ve mucked things up with Simon. For the past half hour, Andrea’s been updating me over FaceTime on all the things I’m missing by “abandoning her” in Ibiza, but I’ve got other, more pressing, things on my mind.

“I’m paying attention,” I lie, even though I know she won’t believe me.

Just as I thought, she looks sceptical, but continues her story anyway. “Right, so she’s following us, and then starts shouting—in English, because she was English—until we stop walking. She catches up and asks—you won’t believe this, oh my god, Baz, honestly you won’t—she asks if I’m wearing red shorts because I’m on my period. Which is totally weird? Isn’t that so weird? Like, of course not, who would do that? So I tell her no, and she looks a bit desperate and asks if I’ve got a tampon anyway, which I didn’t, and then Philippa says—”

“I kissed Simon.”

“Oh, you did? That’s nice. So anyway, Philippa says she does, only when she goes into her bag to grab it, she starts laughing too hard, and I had to look for it. Then the women asks her what’s so funny and this drunk bitch goes,” Andrea yelps as Philippa pinches her, and she corrects herself, “my beautiful, gorgeous, severely intoxicated girlfriend attempts to stare her down and goes: ‘her shorts aren’t even red, they’re blood orange. Blood orange!’ and starts cackling her fucking head off even though that joke is so dead. So dead. Then—”

“Now who isn’t listening? I said I kissed Simon.”

“I heard you, love. Don’t interrupt.” she chides. “As I was saying, Philippa’s laughing at the women, who then gets all pissy and snaps at Philippa to get her the tampon, and then Philippa starts to cry—”

“That’s true, I did,” Philippa chimes in from her spot on Andrea’s lap, “she left after that, but not before Andrea—”

“I said I kissed Simon!”

She tilts her head. “And? Was it not a good kiss?”

“No!” I say forcefully, and then weakly, “well, yes, it was. But I didn’t mean to do it! He was just there, and so close, and everything seemed like it was leading up to us kissing, so I just…did it. I kissed him, he kissed me, and then I pushed him away.”

The volume of Andrea frustrated groan makes me jump. “Fucking hell, Baz. What’d you push him away for?”

“Because I shouldn’t be doing that. I shouldn’t be kissing him.”

“Why not?”

“You know bloody well why not.”

“Refresh me.”

“No.”

“What happened to it not being ‘like that’?”

“We still aren’t ‘like that.”

“But you want to be.”

“No. I don’t.”  

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

I’m beginning to regret bringing it up. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Too fucking bad, babe. We’re talking about this.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“This should not be news to you.”

I wrinkle my nose. “It really isn’t. And  _fine._  He sent me a message a few days ago—”

“Who?”

“Bloody—Simon!”

She smirks to let me know she absolutely knew that. “When?”

I scowl back. “I just told you.”

“No. I mean, like, what day specifically?”

“Oh. Tuesday. Tuesday evening.”

“Before or after we talked?”

“After.”

“I guess the quote worked after all.”

“It had nothing to do with me saying yes.” (Except it did.) (It’s practically the only reason I had.)

“Yes to the date.”

“It wasn’t a date!” I’ve been repeating those words in my head non-stop for weeks, and even I still don’t believe them. Which is exactly why I don’t want to tell her he’d picked me up in front of my house like a proper gentlemen. Or that we went to dinner at the only passably posh place on the island. Or that when the waiter asked how long we’d been together, Simon had knocked over his wine glass in surprise just as I accidentally answered “a year.”

(Or that he’d invited me inside, and I almost didn’t turn him down.)

I can’t tell her any of it. Because I know how it sounds. I know exactly how it sounds. (It sounds like date.)

She pouts. “One thing. Please?”

“Fine.”

I’m treated to a shaky view of the ceiling as Andrea rearranges herself on the sofa. Philippa’s soft voice is clear in the background, and Andrea lifts the mug of tea she’s just been handed to her lips. I wait until she’s taken a sip, bright pink lipstick staining the rim of the mug—my favourite mug, actually—before I divulge.

“He keeps goats now.”

Andrea chokes on her tea and drops the phone. Philippa picks it up, looking like she’s trying not to giggle through her fake scowl. “That wasn’t nice.”

“You can’t—” Andrea appears back on the screen, coughs, then clears her throat twice. Philippa pats her back soothingly as she tries again. “You can’t just spring something like that on me, Baz. Jesus.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say innocently, “I was simply filling you in on the details of my evening with Simon, and informing you that he keeps goats now, and if you hadn’t  _interrupted_  me I would have told you the story of how that happened. But you did, and now I won’t. And I’m not sorry.”

“C’mon, Baz, you know I need more details than that,” she whines.

“You don’t deserve more details. And I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“But—”

“No.”

“Just—”

“I’ll hang up,” I threaten.

“Wait! Wait! I’m sorry! I’m just looking out for you, love. Goat farming might have changed him.” Philippa cackles, unseen, and Andrea bites her lip to stop herself from grinning. She schools her face back into something resembling concern, and continues. “I just don’t think you’ve thought this through at all.”

I hear the cackling again, and Andrea shushes her. Philippa pops back in, grinning conspiratorially, and Andrea’s biting her lip so hard it’s turning white. I’m beginning to dread her next words, and rightfully so, because she looks me straight in the eye as she asks, “What if he wants to milk you?”

Fucking hell. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” she sings-songs, and I roll my eyes.

“I really do.”

“Sure, Baz.”

The shaky ceiling makes another appearance as the mobile is snatched from Andrea’s hand. I hear her squeal, and then Philippa’s face fills the screen. “Sorry, babe. You should have expected this when you started pining after a goat farmer.”

“I didn’t know he was a goat farmer before that. And he’s not a goat farmer! He just keeps goats.”

“Like a goat farmer.”

“For the last time, he’s not a—what was that?”

“What was what?”

“That noise, like—” There it is again, a persistent tapping noise, like pebbles hitting glass. Or a window. Ignoring everything Andrea’s ever said about not checking for strange noises outside bedrooms in the night time, I cross the room to investigate. When I finally push the curtain aside, I gasp. And then try to disguise it as a cough, because I don’t want Andrea to think something’s happened. Because she’ll have questions. Again. Questions I don’t want to answer. Questions I  _can’t_ answer.

Because there, forehead pressed against the glass and smiling tentatively, is Simon.


	5. Chapter 5

Simon’s here. Simon’s  _here_.

Oh, fuck. Simon’s here.

Andrea’s voice is tinny through the speakers, sounding further and further away as the phone slips from my grasp and falls to the floor. I barely register the loss, or the fact that Andrea’s no longer speaking, and I don’t remember actually hanging up on her. I don’t actually remember opening the window either, but there’s Simon standing in front of me, looking sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, and I’d very much like to hit him. But I don’t, because I’d like to kiss him more. (I don’t do that either.)

“Hello, Simon. What do you want?”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

That’s…not what I expected to hear.  “Why should I have called you? And more importantly, why didn’t you call _me_?”

“Didn’t think I was allowed,” he mumbles.

“Of course you didn’t think,” I say, and it comes out meaner than I intended, but I don’t take it back.

“Christ, Baz, do you always have to go there?”

I hold my chin high, a challenge, and when he sighs it sounds like acceptance. Of what, I’m not sure, but then he’s climbing in my window, and I’m not stopping him. He’s crowding into my space, and I’m still not stopping him. Then he’s speaking, and I have to work to focus on his words because he’s  _here_.

“You frustrate me,” he’s saying. “You confuse me, and you irritate me, and you drive me so fucking crazy I can barely stand it.”

“What a coincidence,” I retort, “I can’t stand you either.”

For a moment, it seems like Simon’s going to do something; something like shove me away, or turn around and leave me here. But then he’s leaning in, and everything stops.

If my life was a film, this would be the moment the violins swell and the audience is on the edge of their seats, breathlessly anticipating what happens next.

But there’s no violins, and the only one breathless here is me. Waiting. Watching as Simon’s face grows closer in slow motion. I don’t shut my eyes until I can feel his warm breath mingling with mine. (Mouth-breather.) My skin buzzes electric, every nerve is on fire, and we’re barely centimetres apart.

Simon bites my lip harshly, making me gasp, before soothing the hurt away with a flick of his tongue. He takes advantage of my surprise and slips that same tongue in my mouth, sliding it lazily against my own until I come back to myself and deepen the kiss.

“Shut up,” he murmurs before leaning in to peck my lips, following up with tiny, soft kisses, so gentle they make my breath catch in my throat.

“Shut up,” he repeats as he grips my hips tighter, thumb rubbing softly over the bone there.

“Shut up,” he says a final time as he pushes me back, back,  _back_  until we’re falling onto my bed in a tangle of limbs. We’re snogging like teenagers, all teeth and spit and desperately wandering hands, and talking is the absolute last thing on my mind right now.

So I do.

***

The shingles are rough through the thin fabric of my shirt, but Simon is lying so close to me on the rooftop that I can feel his body heat radiating across the gap between us. It’s taking everything I have not to roll over and burrow into him, like I used to when I was cold and he was warm and we were an us.

And then I remember I’m allowed to do that now. I don’t, though, but I do move my hand ever-so-slightly to the left and take his hand in mine. (We used to hold hands all the time when we were together. I had no idea how much I missed it until right now.) (Which is not at all, obviously.)

“This is nice,” Simon says, raising our joined hands slightly to indicate what he means. “I’ve missed this.”

“Me too.” I answer honestly, and try not to scowl at myself for it.

“Is that the North Star?” I look where he’s pointing, and giggle.

“No, that’s a helicopter. See?” I point. “It’s moving.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “What about that one?” he asks, pointing to an actual star this time, but still not the right one.

“No, that’s not it either,” I say, “but at least it was a star this time. You’re getting warmer.”

Simon shoves my arm playfully with his free hand, and the spot where his palm touches my bare arm burns even after it’s gone.

“Come on then, Basil,” he says, in a posh tone that I think is supposed to be me, “do tell us where this bloody star is.”

“I don’t sound like that.”

He grins cheekily. “I wasn’t mimicking you, but it’s good to know that’s what you think you sound like.”

“Fuck off,” I grumble, and then say, “there,” pointing in the right direction this time, and let my eyes flick over to catch Simon’s reaction.

His face doesn’t change much, but the way the skin by his eyes crinkles slightly while his lips curve into a small smile is enough to take my breath away, and I disguise the noise—because I actually went and made a fucking noise—by clearing my throat.

Simon still hasn’t turned his head, but his expression stays the same as he says, “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again.”

I freeze, because I’m positive I didn’t hear him correctly. “What?”

He blinks, and looks distressed, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. “Nothing.”

“Simon.”

“Tell me about the other stars.”

“ _Simon_.”

“I’ve never hated you, you know,” he says, conversationally, like he isn’t dropping something huge, “I’ve been angry, sure, but I never hated you. And then you came back, and I was so happy, and then you were so fucking mean. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to hating you.”

 _Why are you telling me this?_  I want to ask, but instead I say, “Oh, were you angry? I couldn’t tell.” I was going for heavy sarcasm, but it comes out weaker than intended. “Is that why you punched a fucking tree, then?”

He nods, like I’ve just asked a normal question. “And you.”

“I didn’t punch a tree,” I say stupidly.

“No, I mean I punched you.”

“I remember, I was there.”

“Sorry about that, by the way.”

“You fucking should be, you menace.”

Simon laughs, loud and bright, and then goes quiet before he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

I wait three beats. And when he doesn’t try again I groan, because he’s thick. “Simon.”

“Yes?”

“Kiss me.”

“Okay.”

And he does.

***

With September comes Watford’s annual Founder’s Day Festival. This year marks 200 years since a group of people decided to re inhabit the island, a significant milestone, and the reason Daphne’s been working so hard to make sure everything is perfect.

She’s been on the planning committee for nearly every event on the island for as long as I can remember, but this one has always been the biggest and most important.

I’ve just arrived home from dropping Simon off at his house when I hear Daphne calling my name from the dining room. I almost don’t go—I’m exhausted, and my back hurts from falling asleep on the roof with Simon last night—but I know how stressed she’s been with planning lately, so I poke my head in.

“Yes, mother?”

“Basil,” she greets. “Can we get your opinion on something?”

My thoughts flash to Simon, and I nearly retort with a ‘May we’, but I stop myself just in time before insulting my stepmother in front of her friends. “Of course.”

There’s a rustle of papers as Daphne hunts for something. “We can’t decide what sort of pumpkins to use as decoration. White? Or the traditional orange?”

“Or those fancy green ones,” another woman pipes up, earning herself a glare from half the table.

“Those pumpkins are hideous,” the woman diagonal from her snaps, and then turns to me. “I don’t see why we need to mess with tradition. We’ve always done orange. It doesn’t need to be changed.”

I fix her with my most charming smile before I answer. “Why not do all three? Then everyone is happy.” (She doesn’t look impressed.)

“That sounds lovely, dear,” Daphne says, and my smile becomes genuine. “Oh, one more thing,” she continues. “Since you and Simon are speaking again, could you ask him what time he plans to bring his goats by for the petting zoo? I’d prefer if he did it before the event starts so we can make sure everything is properly set up before the children arrive.  Last year he didn’t bring them early enough and there were tears and parental complaints that I don’t care to deal with again.”

I blink at her dumbly. “I didn’t know he was bringing the goats.”

“He didn’t tell you? Have you not seen him recently?”

“I have,” I say. “Actually, I just dropped him off at—” I stop abruptly, but there’s still 10 pairs of curious eyes staring at me now, and a very surprised looking Daphne. The animosity between Simon and I during our youth was no secret, and I’ve just gone and piqued the interest of the biggest gossips on the island.

Fuck.

“Is there anything else?” I ask quickly, because I don’t want to embarrass Daphne by simply running away.

“Actually, there’s one more thing…” she says, but I’m already hurrying in the direction of the stairs, leaving a collection of whispers in my wake.

I’ll apologise to Daphne later.

***

Many dining table meetings later, the time for the festival arrives. A tiny part of me had been nervous, because while I wanted Simon to join me, I was also worried that seeing him there, participating in an event that held so many memories for us both, would undo everything that’s happened that led us here. But it hasn’t.

We’re walking along the main path towards the Ferris wheel. Simon’s quiet for the first time since our arrival, mostly due to the fact that he’s currently stuffing his face with candy floss. He finishes and grins triumphantly at me, because I’d told him he wouldn’t be able to finish the entire thing. Not after everything else.

But he had and now his teeth are tinted blue and he’s got bits of sticky sugar of the same colour around his mouth. I’d like nothing more than to lick it off. Maybe even kiss it off. Christ, isn’t that a thought? Just reach out, take him by the chin and offer to clean his mouth. With my mouth.

Then I remember I’m allowed to do that now, so I do.

Simon looks shocked at first, and for a moment I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake, but then he’s grabbing me by the hand and dragging me behind an empty ticket booth where he proceeds to push me up against the side and attack my mouth. With his mouth. My knees go a bit wobbly, and just when I’m starting to slide down, Simon’s hands are there on my hips, holding me in place.

I hear two sets of familiar giggles, and when I push Simon away I see the twins standing in front of us with their hands over their mouths, still giggling.

“Cece? Rosie? Where did you—oh!” Mordelia appears behind them with Alfie in tow, and now all four of my siblings are staring at us. I shove Simon off, and scowl.

“You didn’t see that.”

Mordelia crosses her arms. “What do we get?”

Simon looks from her to me, confused, and I groan, because I just want to go back to kissing Simon, not get shaken down by my 10 year old sister trying to get me to buy her silence. I don’t bother asking what she wants, and pull out my wallet, handing each girl a £10 note. Alfie pouts until he gets one too, which he proceeds to throw onto the ground, giggling as he watches it float. Lovely.

Mordelia looks at the note. “Is that it?” I glare, and she backs off, rolling her eyes as she guides my siblings away. Off to spend my money.

As if to remind me exactly why I just did that, Simon grabs me by the collar, crashing his lips into mine, kissing me until my head is swimming from lack of oxygen. I pull away, intending to suggest that we take this somewhere more private, but before I get a chance Simon has already opened the door to the booth and shoves me inside.

Happy Birthday, Watford.

***

Three months ago, I’d have been ecstatic at the thought of returning home. Not that I’m not looking forward to it—there are things I’ve missed, after all—but while London has a lot of things, it doesn’t have Simon.

Speaking of Simon, he’s currently got his arms around me in an impressive imitation of an octopus, clinging to me like a life raft.

(To be fair, I’m doing that same.)

“Simon,” I say, “Simon, I’m going to miss the ferry.”

He doesn’t loosen his hold as he mumbles a muffled, “then let go,” into my neck.

“You let go first.” He ignores me, only holding on tighter. I don’t want him to stop, but I wasn’t kidding. I really am in danger of missing the ferry, and it’s the last one today. “We’ll let go on three, okay?”

I count to three, and he whispers along. “You didn’t let go,” I say.

“Neither did you,” he accuses, gently, as he finally releases me. “I’m going to miss you,” he says.

“That’s unfortunate,” I reply, my throat going a bit gooey in an effort not to cry,  “because I won’t miss you at all.”

Simon makes a noise somewhere between and laugh and a sob. “Thanks.”

I rest my forehead against his for a moment before giving him a final goodbye kiss—only it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. It feels like a promise, because I’ve told him I’d return. And I will.

I promise.


	6. Chapter 6

“When I said I would visit,” I say to Simon as he takes my suitcase, “I didn’t mean quite this soon.”

“You said you had some time off from uni.”

“I said I had the _option_. Reading week isn’t an official break, plus it’s only been, what, a month?” _A month and a week my brain chimes in unhelpfully A month and a week with no Simon. Stop pretending like you weren’t plotting a reason to visit before he asked_. “It’s only been a month,” I say, louder, hoping to drown out that voice, “what’s a month compared to three years?” Even before the words are fully out of my mouth I know I’ve said that wrong thing.

“Well, you didn’t have to come.” Simon looks genuinely hurt, and he ducks his head away, trying to cover up the fact that he won’t look at me by starting to walk down the path. “C’mon, Baz, we need to hurry. It’s supposed to rain soon.”

“I know I didn’t have to.” I tell him, despite the fact that I know he’s trying to change the subject. “I wanted to,” I tell him. “I wanted to see you.”

And that’s when the sky opens up.

***

Simon and I weren’t able to make it back to his house before the rainstorm. Once it began, we were soaked in seconds, and forced to run the rest of the way back. Everything in my suitcase is damp, so Simon offered to lend me some of his own clothes. I’m currently staring at the haphazard little pile he’s left me—it’s obvious he attempted to fold the items, but it’s Simon, so he didn’t quite manage to make it work.

He’s given me a fucking tracksuit to wear. I don’t know why I expected anything else, really. Simon had basically lived in them almost the entire time I’d known him—all of secondary school, at least. Why should it be any different now?

I tug the bottoms on and look down at my legs.

The bottoms are…well, they’re too short. Much too short. My ankles are visible and it just looks…wrong, so I tug them down until they’re the correct length. Except now they’re hanging so low on my hips that it feels indecent. The jumper isn’t much better; the hem just barely brushes the waistband of the trackies, and if I raise my arms even the slightest amount my stomach shows.

Either my ankles are on display or I risk flashing Simon some skin. It’s nothing he’s never seen before, of course, but I don’t want it to seem like I’m trying to get his attention. (Except maybe I am. Just a little bit.)

When I walk out of his bedroom with my too-small clothes, Simon makes a choking noise that he attempts—and fails—-to cover up with a cough.  

“I know I look ridiculous,” I say with about as much dignity as I can manage while dressed like an overgrown child.

“No…you don’t—” He clears his throat. “You don’t look ridiculous. I’m just not…not used to seeing you like this.”

“In ill-fitting clothes?”

“No…in—I don’t know, something normal?”

“Are you saying I don’t wear normal clothes?”

“No! No—no you do…just—” He looks flustered now; guilty. “Fuck, Baz, you know what I mean.”

(I do know what he means, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to have fun first.)

There’s not much to do at Simon’s house, I quickly learn—even his telly only gets five channels—but I do find what looks to be Ebb’s record collection, and, after confirming with Simon that it’s okay to touch, I begin sifting through the box, curious about the contents inside. You can tell a lot about a person by their taste in music, and Ebb’s collection boasts of a happy life, with a side of rebellion and heartbreak—familiar feelings.

I come across an album I’d loved as a child—it had been a favourite of my mothers, and watching her and my father dance to it through a crack in the doorway was a privilege my younger self sought whenever he could.

I put it on, and suddenly I don’t want to be the observer; I want to be the one dancing. So I steal Simon from the sofa and lead him to the middle of the room.    

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I don’t know about you,” I say as I take his hand in mine, “but I’m dancing.”

Simon’s curls brush my cheek as he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Why do you get to lead?” he complains.

“Because I’m the better dancer, obviously.”

As if to prove me wrong, Simon’s suddenly moving away, and then wrapping his arms around me just so, dipping me so far back that the ends of my hair graze the floor. With a smirk, he pulls me out of the dip, and we resume our earlier sway, this time with him as the lead.

 _I’m so in love with you, I want to tell him, I’m so in love with you that it hurts._  I’m scared Simon can read it on my face—he’s so close that his freckles are beginning to blur together. If I leaned forward—just a bit—I could kiss him. Kiss his lips, and each of the moles dotting his face, every last freckle until I wouldn’t need to say it anymore.

The song is long over, the silence hanging in the air, and I almost tell him. Almost. I open my mouth, the confession on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I say, “I want to kiss you everywhere.”

Simon blinks once, and then he’s leaning into my space, pressing himself against my thigh. Eyebrows raised. An invitation.

The energy in the room changes then. Because he’s hard. Because I can feel the heat on my skin through the two layers of fabric, and suddenly everything is too warm, my throat too dry.

Lifting my hands from his waist up to cup his cheeks, I lean in and run my nose up his jaw, then again on the other side, revelling in the way it makes his breath catch.

Simon whines as I brush my lips over the moles on his cheek that I’ve wanted to kiss ever since that first day. His grip on my upper arms tightens as I make my way down his neck to the mole there, treating it like a target. (Treating this like a challenge.)

“Baz.” His voice is broken, pleading, stabbing at my heart. “ _Baz_.”

“I know, love,” I say, “I know. Let me make it better.”

And I kiss him.

***

The first time I ever undressed Simon Snow, I was 18 years old and bloody terrified. The boy I’d wanted since I was old enough to, well, want things, was stood in front of me, waiting for me to take his clothes off.

I’d been fine until I got to his pants, then my hands started shaking so hard that Simon had to remove them himself. I’d been embarrassed at my inexperience until Simon returned the favour, his hands shaking nearly as hard as mine.

We’d seen each other naked numerous times after that day, it shouldn’t feel like it did the first time, but it  _does_. I’m not even touching him yet and my palms are vibrating with the urge to feel his skin. I take a tentative step forward, then two, then three, until I’m close enough to reach out and tug at the hem of his t-shirt.

“Can I take this off?”

Simon nods, not laughing anymore, and raises his arms above his head. His shirt rises up just enough for a strip of his stomach to poke out, and suddenly I don’t want to go slow anymore. Which turns out to be a mistake, because when I yank the fabric up, Simon’s arms get caught in the sleeves, and the situation becomes decidedly less sexy.

“Need help?” he asks, voice muffled.

“I’ve got it.” I grit out once I finally manage to get the shirt off, handing it to Simon who just looks at me strangely. Right. The shirt is discarded on the floor, and now I’m free to explore Simon’s bare chest.

“Wait,” he interrupts, “if we’re going to do this, I want to do it proper. Like, in a bed. Preferably mine.”

“Lead the way, then.”

We barely make it into the hall when Simon is crowding me against the wall, kissing my neck, lifting my arms above my head.

His fingers are loose around my wrists; I could break the hold easily. But I don’t. I just watch as he starts to trail kisses up my arm. I shiver as his lips brush the delicate skin on the inside of my elbow.

“Kiss me,” I demand petulantly, beyond caring how desperate I sound.

“I thought I was.”

“Kiss me on the  _mouth_ , you idiot.”

Laughing quietly, Simon reaches out to run his fingers along my jaw before catching me by the chin, guiding my face forward and pressing his lips to mine. He kisses me once, twice, three times, before I’m reaching for him, taking over the kiss and slipping my tongue into his mouth.

He relinquishes all control, nearly going boneless as I push him back against the wall, almost panting into my mouth now as I straddle his hips. I can feel Simon growing hard under my inner thigh, and I press down until he’s groaning, hands scrabbling at my waist as he bucks his hips in the air, nearly knocking me over.

I gasp in surprise when he grabs the underside of my thighs, hefting me up as he pushes away from the wall.

“Simon, what are you—”

“Taking you to bed,” he says, and I can tell he’s trying to be sexy, but his voice has gone just high enough to betray the fact that he’s not having an easy time carrying me, and I’m getting ready to tell him to put me down, that he can live out his macho man fantasy another way, when he just…falls. While holding me.

Simon rolls off me quickly, and I’m stunned, but recover fast. An idea occurs to me, and I let my legs fall open, hoping I look as alluring as Simon makes me feel. I must, because Simon is staring at me with a look on his face that can only be described as hunger. He’s either going to eat me, or fuck me, and if I’m honest, I’m so far gone in this moment that I’m not sure I’d mind either one. (Joking, obviously. I may be disturbed, but I’m not that disturbed.)

“Please,” I say, and Simon whimpers.

Then he’s touching me— _finally_ —slipping his hand inside the trackies and encircling my cock with familiar fingers. He groans as he does so, and I feel it in every inch of my body. His hand finds its way back until he’s cupping my arse, fingers inching closer to my hole.

“Can I?” he asks, and it’s barely a whisper. When I nod, he rises up on his elbows. “I’ll go get…” He trails off, and I smirk.

“You can say the word lube,” I tease, and he giggles, fucking giggles, and I do too, because I can’t quite wrap my head around how we got here.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, kissing me on the forehead quickly before standing and walking—nearly running, really—to his room.  

For a brief moment, it occurs to me that I could just get up and follow him there, but the combination of our run and the way he’s literally struck me breathless makes standing up and walking  _anywhere_  sound less than tempting. Anyway, Simon is back before I’d have even managed to get up, and we might as well just do it here. (I might just be that desperate.)

He drops to his knees in front of me. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Fucking do something about it then,” I say, and he does, taking his time until I’m writhing under his touch, begging him to get on with it. (And he does.)

One of the goats is making a racket outside, someone drives by with their music blaring too loudly, the carpet is scratchy against my arse, but all of that barely registers as I watch Simon uncap the bottle. We’re both holding our breath as he lets it drip onto his fingers, and we stare as he rubs those fingers together. He exhales first, and I follow, because I know I need to be relaxed for this. For him.

“Are you ready?” Simon looks just as nervous as I feel, and that’s comforting. I like knowing we’re on the same page. I nod, and he bites his lip as he nudges the tip of his middle finger against my hole.

“Christ, Simon,” I pretend to sneer, hoping to break the tension, “will you get on with it already?”

“So impatient,” he teases.

“Yes. I am.”

Simon hasn’t improved his technique since we did this last, and a tiny jealous part of me hopes that means there hasn’t been anyone else. And then I feel guilty, because there have been people since Simon, and that’s not very fair of me to judge him. I have to consciously work to get the image of Simon fucking some nameless bloke out of my mind, which isn’t too hard, actually, because Simon’s thumbs are digging into my hip bones, leaving behind proof,  _evidence_ , for me to admire later.

He rises until he’s kneeling, taking the lower half of my body with him, and resumes his pace, once again knocking the breath out of me with every thrust. At this point I’d be gripping the headboard, but thanks to Simon’s clumsiness all I have to work with is a door frame.

Simon’s looking down at me, expression so soft that it very nearly slips out again.  _I love you_.

I’m reminded of Andrea asking me what it felt like to be in love once, years ago, before she and Philippa were official and I was still raw from Simon. At the time, I wasn’t able to give her an answer. It wasn’t that I didn’t know, I just couldn’t put the feeling into words.

But here, in this moment, I finally can.

It’s like coming home, only home isn’t a place, it’s a person, and sometimes the person is looming over you with flushed red cheeks and messed up curls, looking at you like you’re the answer to every question in the universe.

(And they don’t judge the noise you make when you come.)


	7. Chapter 7

“My arm is asleep.”

“Deal with it,” I say, “I’m not moving.”

“I’m serious. It’s gone all tingly,” Simon complains.

“Stop being so comfortable then.” I’m not prepared for what happens next, which is Simon using his other hand to shove my shoulder, forcing me to roll off him and onto the carpet. “What the hell, Simon!”

“My arm was asleep.”

“ _My arm was asleep_ ,” I mimic, rubbing at my hip where it collided with the door frame. “That fucking hurt.”

Simon has the decency to look apologetic, and offers me his arm again, only this time it’s the opposite side. I accept his silent invitation, burrowing back into the warmth his body provides.

He kisses the top of my head. “Better?”

I nod, and he kisses me again, this time closer to my forehead.

“So, what’s the plan for the week then?” he asks, “You are planning to stay the week, right?”

“If you’ll have me,” I say, and he chuckles because the answer is obvious.

“What about after?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re coming back for Christmas, right?”

“Right,” I answer slowly, already starting to dread where this is going.

“What about after that? What about…my birthday?”

“You mean summer?”

“Yeah.”

“Most likely,” I say, and then decide I need to get the next part out quick before I lose my nerve. “But I won’t stay. I’ll be…I’m going to be looking for jobs. In the city.”

Simon inhales sharply. I’m dislodged once again as he sits up, raking his fingers through his hair and looking taken aback by my confession. Shocked, like he’d really had no idea. “So you’re not moving back?”

Quick. Like a band-aid. “Of course not,” I say, “why would I? What reason is there to do that? Why would I want to be stuck in Watford forever? There’s nothing here, Simon!” I’m shouting now. “No opportunities!” I’m breathing heavier now, getting angrier as I ask, “Is this really the future you want for yourself? Working at the cafe for the rest of your life? Spending your days milking fucking goats? Did you ever stop and consider that this is not the future I wanted? That I don’t want that?” I feel exposed, sitting in front of him in just my pants, so I feel around for the trackie bottoms. I find the top first, and then Simon finally speaks up.

“Me.”

My hand finally closes around the bottoms, and I whip my head to look at him. “What?”

“You wanted a reason to stay. Me.”

I don’t say anything, and there’s a horrible silence as it dawns on him.

“I’m not enough, am I?”

“Simon…”

“Save it, Baz.” His voice is terse, but there’s enough of a wobble there to let me know he’s trying not to cry.

My world, everything we've built up to these past five months, feels like it's about to implode. My heart is pounding. This can’t be happening again, not after everything I’ve done to get him back. We’re finally in a good place and I’ve gone and fucked it up.

My thoughts are scrambled; I can’t make anything coherent come out of my mouth except a broken, “ _please_.”

“Please, what? Please understand that you’re choosing London over me? Again? I trusted you, Baz. I opened up and trusted you and you broke it. Again! Do you not get it? Do you really not get it? I love you, Baz! I never stopped loving you, not once! But I— ”

“Why do I have to choose?” I say, interrupting him.

Now it’s his turn to be speechless, and it’s obvious the thought never even occurred to him. “Come with me,” I say, “come to London. Why do we have to stay in Watford to be together?”

“Because Watford is my home.”

“And London is mine. Why should I be the one to give that up? Why can’t you just come back to London with me?”

“I...I just—I just can’t, Baz, okay? I can’t. And I think—I think you need to leave.” The words sound thick on his tongue, like he’s fighting to get them out.

I can’t tell if he means the island or his house, but I don’t stick around to find out before I’m yanking my clothes on and searching out my suitcase. I hadn’t even have a chance to unpack it, which only serves to help me make a cleaner escape.

I can hear footsteps behind me, and a thrill goes up my spine at the prospect that it’s Simon, that he’s followed me to beg me to stay, but instead he asks, “When were you going to tell me?” and then, smaller and more resigned, “were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Summer.”

“What the fuck? That long? What the  _fuck_?”

“I didn’t realise you needed a warning 10 months in advance,” I say sarcastically, and his face hardens.

“Get out,” he says, and my heart breaks when his voice does. “Get out,” he repeats, and it sounds like he’s about to force me.

So I do.

***

I don’t know where to go. I can’t go to my family’s house; they don’t even know I’m back, and this isn’t exactly the headspace I want to be in when I tell them. There’s a ferry leaving soon, and while it’s tempting to wait and see if Simon comes after me, I know he’s far too stubborn. And I know I’ve fucked up too badly. He’s not coming. So I’m leaving.

I reach into my pocket for my phone so I can call Andrea, and I start when my hand brushes my leg, because I don’t feel denim. The material is soft and grey and there’s a pit in my stomach now because I’m wearing his fucking tracksuit.

And that’s when I finally let myself cry.

***

The stars are different here.

That’s the first thing I said to Andrea when she picked me up from the train station, and the only thing on my mind since being home.

The stars are different. Everything is different.

I still haven’t told Andrea exactly what happened with Simon, but I figure the fact that I left six days before schedule is enough of an explanation to tide her over for now. I know I can’t keep it in forever. But saying it out loud makes it real. I don’t want it to be real. Not yet.

Looking back, I should have seen this coming. I should have known it was an impossible dream, that I couldn’t just be with Simon again. Not that easily. Not like that. (Possibly not ever.)

I’ve learnt the truth: happy endings aren’t real. No one actually goes riding off into the sunset with their true love at the end of the story. Life isn’t a romantic comedy with the main character risking life and limb to get to the love interest in time. There’s no happily ever after, no desperate kisses, no tearful resolution. No second chances.

London has stars, too. London has a lot of things. But London doesn’t have Simon.

And right now, neither do I.


	8. Chapter 8

The next two months pass quickly. I throw my energy into my schoolwork, anything to keep my mind away from Simon. And it works.

(Almost.)

Christmas at our flat is a quiet affair. The three of us spending the day together isn’t unusual—Andrea and I both share a dislike for the places we came from, and the fact that neither of our families wanted us to be queer. Philippa can’t afford to visit her parents in Vietnam more than once a year—but this year’s celebrations were especially subdued. (I suspect the two of them planned it that way, but I would have appreciated more of a distraction, if I’m honest.)

The week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve hadn’t been much different. Boxing Day had been spent lounging around the flat, and debating what to do with the extreme excess of gifts sent to Andrea by her parents. (They do this every year, like they think it will make up for the fact that even after three years together they still won’t accept that she’s with Philippa.)

Somehow, Andrea had convinced us last night that it would be a completely brilliant idea to go to a club last night—we apparently needed our spirits lifted before the arrival of 2018—and since neither I nor her girlfriend truly possess the ability to say no to her ridiculous notions, we’d gone.

Which is why I’ve just woken up with the worst headache. The severity is not exactly a surprise, considering how much alcohol I consumed last night, but that doesn’t stop me from cursing the universe and everyone who inhabits it. Especially the individual responsible for unleashing White Russians upon an unsuspecting society. The fact that I can’t remember who that is at the moment is a testament to just how much thinking hurts right now. And it does. A lot. Every little move I make brings a fresh wave of pain to the inside of my skull, and I’m tempted to curl up and die where I lay.

I don’t usually drink enough to get properly hungover, but when I do, the results are nightmarish.

I somehow manage to pry myself out of bed and stumble down the hall to Andrea’s room. She appears to be just as hungover as I am, and if I were a better friend I’d let her sleep.

I creep over until I’m next to the bed, lean over so my lips are right against her ears, and say, “good morning!”

(This does not go over well.)

Once Andrea is calm again, she picks up the bottle of wine on her nightstand and stares at it. “Why is this here?”

“You decided it was a good idea to drink it before bed.”

“Well,” she says, wincing as she sits up, “I suppose that explains the headache.” (She doesn’t ask what happened to the other one—the sight of her girlfriend slowly waking up and appearing to be in a similar state is enough of a confirmation.) (As is the empty bottle still clutched in her hand.)

Andrea pats the bed beside her. “Come to bed, Bazzy.”

I make a face at the nickname she knows I hate, and then gasp. “Are you propositioning me?” I ask, ducking as she tosses a pillow my way.

I snatch it up to use as a shield just as she flings the second one. “Don’t be fucking weird.”

“Shut the actual fuck up, both of you,” Philippa grumbles from underneath her pillow, and groans loudly when Andrea snatches that one and sends it flying.

“I didn’t even say anything this time!” I protest.

“I know,” she says, “that was for waking up my girlfriend.”

“We both woke up your girlfriend.”

“Aha! You admit your guilt!”

“Shut  _uuup_ ,” Philippa groans again.

“Sorry, Philippa,” we say in unison, and she sticks her middle finger up at us.

***

It’s New Year’s Eve.

We’ve thrown a party, just like we do every year, only this time I’m miserable.

Andrea’s on her fifth glass of merlot and it’s beginning to show. Her round cheeks are stained a faint pink, and she’s lost her ability to, well, not gesture wildly as she’s speaking.

“You see, Basilton—May I call you Basilton?”

“You may not.”

“You see, Basilton, there is nothing festive about mince pies, and here’s why.”

I wait patiently for her explanation before I realise it’s not coming. “Why aren’t mince pies festive?”

“Hmm?”

“You were about to explain why mince pies aren’t festive.”

“Was I? Okay then.” A pause. “First of all, I don’t like them.” She rests her head on my shoulder and closes her eyes.

I nudge her foot with my own, because now she’s gone and made me curious. “What’s the next reason?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s all the reasons?”

She nods and reaches out blindly to pat my cheek. “You’re a good friend, Basilton. Tyrannus, Basil. Baz. Shit, you have a lot of—” she burps, “a lot of names, don’t you?”

“You’re pissed.”

“I resent that accusation.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nope, can’t prove it.”

I roll my eyes at her and snort, and then stare down at my own glass of wine, wishing it was something stronger. Wishing I was back at home. Wishing I was spending tonight with Snow. Not that Andrea isn’t lovely company, but in about five minutes Philippa is going to come over and sit on her lap, which I normally don’t mind—any grudges about being a third-wheel are completely non-existent after nearly four years as friends—just…

Well, they’re ringing in the new year together, and while the three of us are technically together right now, it’s not the same. Getting cheek-kissed at midnight by your best friend right before she starts snogging her girlfriend is much less preferable to actually kissing another person. Like Simon, for example.

Fuck.

Andrea must notice the sudden change in my mood, because she’s stopped attempting to slander mince pies and leans into me, nudging my shoulder with her own. A few pieces of her hair tickle my nose, but I ignore them. She smells like wine and pastries and her favourite perfume.

It occurs to me that I no longer consider London “home”, and that I haven’t for a while now. My home is on the island. No, that’s not it. The island has never been my home. Watford has never been my home. My home is with Snow. With Simon.

If Simon wants to make Watford his home, then so can I.

I’m up off the sofa in a flash, jostling Andrea and nearly causing her to spill her wine. She makes a noise of protest, and I apologise quickly before leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

Grabbing a jumper, I rush out of the flat, ignoring Andrea’s voice calling after me in confusion.

 _I’m coming_ , Simon, I think,  _I’m coming home_.

***

I take the world’s most expensive uber from London to Southend-on-Sea, having tipped the driver exorbitantly before he’d even consider it, and then even more once we reached my destination. And I still don’t get there in time.

I watch as the ferry—-the last one of the day—grows smaller and smaller. Much like my chances of getting to Simon.

Now I’ll never get to him, I’ll never get him back, and I’ll be forced to live unhappily in London, alone, for the rest of my life.

“Fuck!” I swear. “Fucking _fuck_!”

The sensible thing to do in this situation—according to the voice in my head that sounds an awful lot like my stepmother— would be to stay the night here and take the ferry first thing in the morning. But that’s not good enough. I’ve come this far, and I’ve gone and convinced myself that if I don’t see him before the year is over, it’ll be too late. Rational thought or not, I’m determined to get there. I can’t miss my chance again.

I’m just not sure how I’m going to pull it off.

And then I see the boats.

There’s boats.

There’s a lot of boats.

I must be completely mad. I’ve gone off the rails, I’m possessed, I’m out of my  _fucking_ mind. Because there’s a boat in front of me, a fishing boat,  and I’m thinking about taking it. If I take it, then I’ll be able to make it. I’ll get to Simon. I’ll finally get my second chance.

So I do.


	9. Chapter 9

I don’t know how many laws I’ve just broken. I honestly don’t give a fuck, because I’ve managed to get to the island before midnight, even if it’s not by much. According to my phone, I’ve got roughly 20 minutes left, meaning it’s taken me almost 3 hours to get from London to here.

But it’s worth it; Simon is worth it. I’d cross the ocean for him. I’m in love with him. And I need to let him know. Need to tell him I made a mistake, the same mistake I made six years ago when I thought I could leave this place behind. When I thought I could leave Simon behind.

My thin jumper is no match for the frigid December air, especially not with the droplets of sea spray still clinging to the fabric. It’s not good for the wool, I’m sure, but I can’t bring myself to care. My mind is focused on getting to Simon; damp sweater—and soaked shoes—be damned.

It’s spooky out here in the dark by myself. I’m not sure I know how to get to Simon’s cottage in the pitch black, but I still head off in the general direction anyway, determined.

Eventually, I find it. One of the goats is still awake, pure white coat gleaming in the moonlight, and it bleats softly as I make my way up the path to Simon’s door. I shush it.

“I won’t have you ruining the surprise,” I say, and the goat just stares. And rolls its eyes. (Can goats roll their eyes?) (Right, that’s not important right now. Simon is important. Simon is the most important.)

I pull a face at the goat, and it bleats again, louder. I wince as the sound pierces the silent night, and wait one, two, three beats before deciding that Simon hasn’t heard, and that it’s safe to walk up the steps to his porch.

My shoes squelch loudly every step of the way, and finally I’m there, standing outside his door. My stomach rolls; this was a good idea when I wasn’t thinking too hard. When my only thought was Simon, get to Simon. But now I’m here, and I’m fucking terrified.

I feel something hit my leg, and it’s the bloody goat nudging me with its head. I yelp as the horns press against my thigh, and then there’s the sound of footsteps coming from inside the house.

Shit.

The goat trots off towards the others, leaving me all alone on the porch when Simon opens the door.

“No,” he says, and starts to close it on me.

“Wait!”

Simon manages to shut me out, but I don’t leave. The curtain covering the window next to the door flutters, and I manage to catch Simon’s eye. His face is a blank mask, and when I attempt to smile at him, he shakes his head and disappears from view.

Undeterred—I’ve come too far to give up now—I knock on the door, the rap of my knuckles echoing my rapidly increasing heartbeat.

“Go away, Baz.” I hear him call through the door, and I knock again. Suddenly, my knuckles meet air, and Simon’s in front of me, scowling sullenly.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m here to see you,” I say like it’s obvious. Simon doesn’t look convinced. “And I want to apologise. For leaving. For being selfish. Both times. Leaving you—both times—has been the worst decision I ever made. The hardest and the worst, and if I could take it all back, I would. Because I love you, Simon.” I press on, when he doesn’t respond. “I love you. I’m in love with you. Christ, I’m so in love with you that it drives me mad sometimes, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you not knowing that.”  

His mouth is a thin line, but he hasn’t told me to leave again; I take that as an invitation to continue.

“I want to grow old with you.” The words tumble from my lips before I have time to think about them. “I want to come home to you. I want you to come home to me. I want you. I want us. I want this.”

“Your home is in London,” he says finally, and I shake my head.

“My home is here,” I correct him. “My home is…,” I can’t believe I’m about to admit this, “my home is here. My home is you. It’s always been you, love, I was just too blind to realise.”

I gasp when Simon shoves me. Hard. “You don’t get to do this, Baz,” he spits, “you can’t do this to me, not again. You  _can’t_. It’s not  _fair_.”

“I know, I—”

“You can’t just come back and expect everything to be okay!” He’s almost yelling now, his hands are in his hair, tugging on his curls, messing them up. My nails dig into my palms as I fight the urge to fix them. “Fuck, Baz, do you have any idea how much this hurts?”

I do.

“You left me again,” he says, and I start to nod, but stop, because I’m not sure what he’s referencing.

“You told me to go. At your house. You told me to go.”

“I told you to get out. I didn’t…I didn’t expect you to—I looked for you. I looked for you, and I even went to your house. Your parents were well surprised to see me. I’m pretty sure your father hates me. Daphne was nice though, even if she seemed a bit sad that you didn’t tell them you were back.”

“I told you I hadn’t. That’s why I didn’t have a car and we had to walk to your house.”

“I thought you were trying to be romantic.”

“You’re an idiot,” I say, and Simon cracks a smile. And then it’s gone.

“I’m still angry with you.”

“If it helps, I’m angry with me too.”

“It doesn’t.”

“That’s fair. But you also never gave me a chance to explain.”

He crosses his arms. “Go ahead.”

Thrown, I work to gather my thoughts into something coherent. “When I came back…” I start, and then falter. “Coming back to Watford, seeing you, being with you, allowing myself to love you…fuck, Simon, I was happy. I was so happy. Happier than I’ve been in years.”

His face twists. It looks like he’s in pain. “You can’t just say those things, you can’t just say things that you don’t mean. You can’t just… you can’t do this to me, Baz. Not again.”

“But I do mean them,” I plead. “I realised I was wrong. I was so wrong. This was never about returning to Watford. This has always been about you. And you’ve made Watford your home. So…” I don’t know if I can say it yet. “I thought nothing could convince me to return to the island permanently. But I was wrong. Because…because it’s you.” I don’t know what else to say, and the expression on Simon’s face has me convinced it’s time to go. I turn, only to be jerked back when Simon grabs me by the wrist.  

“Wait,” he says. “I have to know. Why now? Why did you wait until now to tell me all of this?”

“Because…” I swallow. “Because I decided I didn’t want to be scared anymore.”

“Scared of what?”

“Getting hurt.”

“Bloody h—fuck.  _Fuck_. Okay. Fuck, okay.” Simon takes a deep breath, and then another, and looks me straight in the eye.  “How do I know you won’t leave again?”

I blink in surprise. “Wait…just like that? You’re forgiving me just like that?”

“Of course not,” he says, “but I want to. So, how do I know you won’t do this again?”

“I suppose you don’t,” I admit. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”

“And should I? Trust you?”

“I’d certainly prefer it,” I say drily, and Simon’s smile makes an appearance again. This time, it stays.

“If you do that to me again,” Simon says, jamming his finger into my chest, “I’m going to kick your arse.” He’s trying his best to look menacing, but it’s not working. I can see right through him. He’s still smiling.

Pulling his hand away from my chest, I link our fingers together, tugging him forward.

“I wouldn’t expect anything different.”

“I’m serious, Baz.”

“I know you are.”

Simon laughs softly and bites his lip. “So, what do we do now?”

“That depends,” I answer, “Do they still set off fireworks in the square?”

He nods, and leans into my space, resting his chin on my shoulder. I let him. (As if there were any chance I wouldn’t)

We stay like that, Simon pressed against me, still holding onto my wrist, when I hear the woman on the telly announce that it’s time to start counting down.

“It’s almost midnight,” he whispers, and something about him trying to be quiet when it’s just the two of us sends a shiver down my spine.

I ghost my lips against the curve of his jaw. “Are you ready?”

He nods and drops my wrist, bringing his hands up to rest on my waist now. The heat of them spreads through my whole body, and he murmurs “ten” along with the crowd.

“Nine,” My pulse is thrumming in my ears now; I can’t believe this is real.

“Eight,” Simon says, and shivers as I move my hands up his back, past his shoulders, to his cheeks. I cup them. He’s nearly cross eyed, we’re so close.

“Seven,” he breathes, and at the same time I tell him, “I love you.” He closes his eyes and whimpers.

We chant the next numbers in tandem, each one bringing us closer and closer to new year.

I stop counting at four, leaving Simon to whisper the remaining three on his own, and then I’m crashing my lips into his, slipping my tongue past the seam of his mouth and licking inside. He moans into the kiss and I have to work to keep my knees from buckling.

The fireworks begin bursting in the background, but I can’t be bothered to look. All I want to do right now is kiss Simon, so I do. I do, and I do, and I do. Simon’s mumbling something against my lips that sounds like “I love you,” and my heart feels lighter than it has in a long time.

He laughs, and it comes out sounding a bit wet. “Happy New Year, Baz.”

“Happy New Year, Simon,” I reply, and he pulls me close, rests his chin on my shoulder. I kiss his temple, letting my lips linger and drinking in this feeling; soaking in the anticipation of a new year; a fresh start.

Simon’s hips bump mine and I realise he’s swaying, attempting to dance to the music coming from inside. Without warning, I spin around and dip him low to the ground. He watches me with wide, trusting eyes, and I’m so in love with him in this moment that it hurts.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, and I do.

I do, and I do, and I do, and I don’t stop until his hand comes up to rest on the back of my neck. I can feel it slowly creeping up until he’s tugging at the sensitive hairs at my nape, making me yelp and break the kiss. “What the hell, Simon!”

He doesn’t even look guilty. “I like your hair better down.”

“So use your words, you numpty.”

He doesn’t of course—when has he ever?— and his hand continues its journey up, up, up until he’s tugging at the hairband. I don’t say anything, barely breathing as he gently works it loose, tossing it over the rail and grinning as my hair tumbles down and hits my shoulders.

And then he’s kissing me again, tangling his fingers in my hair and pulling just enough to send tingles of pleasure down my spine—just enough to feel amazing. I moan into his mouth; he’s doing that nice thing with his chin that I’ve missed so much, and I’ve got no idea how I thought I could get through life without Simon Snow’s kisses.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs against my lips, and I realise I must have spoken aloud. Too ecstatic to be properly embarrassed, I grab onto his shoulders and press my mouth to his more insistently. We’ve got to make up for lost time, after all—six years of it.

Simon breaks the kiss and scrapes his nails against my shoulder blades, making me shiver with want. “Do you want to stay over?”

“Okay. But I have to get up early to return a boat,” I say, leaning into his touch.

His hands fall. “You…a boat…return—what?”

I bite my lip so I don’t ruin the moment by laughing at his expression. His eyes are wide and he’s looking at me in disbelief; I can tell the moment it registers, when he asks, “you stole a boat for me?” His voice is small, not matching his wide grin.

“Technically, it’s only stealing if you don’t plan to return it.”

“You stole a boat for me.” This time it’s a statement, not a question, and I don’t get a chance to correct him again before Simon launches himself at me and I’m stumbling backwards. My back hits the rail of his porch, but I don’t feel it as Simon clings to me.

I let him, even though his grip is making it hard for me to breathe. I don’t need to breathe, I decide; not if it means staying in Simon’s arms like this for the rest of my life.

“I can’t believe…a boat—Baz, that’s crazy! That’s absolutely fucking mental. Why didn’t you just wait until tomorrow? Why did you have to steal a fucking boat?”

“Because the ferry stopped running,” I say like it’s obvious, “and I had to get to you.”

“But you could have waited until tomorrow.”

“No, I couldn’t have. I had to see you, I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t risk losing you again.”

Simon still looks stunned. “You’re mad. Like, completely. Mad.”

“Probably,” I say. “Do you hate it?”

He shakes his head. “I could never hate you. Even when I was the most—I could never hate you. And I am so, so happy that—shit, Baz, you have no idea how happy I am that you’re here. That you came…you came back to me.”

The relief in his voice as he murmurs the words into my ear makes me choke up all over again. I don’t want to think about how hurt he must have been, how I’d been the one to hurt him. I can’t let myself think about that. All I want to think about is getting him inside, letting him know how much I love him, convincing him I’m going to stay. That I won’t leave him again. Not ever.  

“Simon,” I say, “love, let’s get inside.”

He nods against my shoulder, and I gently push him towards the door. We cross the threshold at the same time, lips meeting as the last of the fireworks crackle in the air.

And we begin again.

_~fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> [click here to reblog the masterpost on tumblr ( ﾉ ^ヮ^ )ﾉﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/167812907287/begin-again-masterpost)


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